


Lessons in Mercy

by be11amy



Category: Dragalia Lost (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Not Shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be11amy/pseuds/be11amy
Summary: At the base of the Lightwyrm’s roost and approaching the climb to Kleifheim, Emile is sick of being disobeyed and refuses to abide by impudence - but he’s not sure that Harle’s more roundabout method of teaching Emile a lesson isn’t even worse.





	Lessons in Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of chapter two, and takes place at the beginning of chapter four.

Emile really isn’t built for a life of tromping around inhospitable battlegrounds of bugs, horse feces, and filthy _nature_ , Emile has decided. Unfortunately for him, however, leaving the duty of capturing his traitorous younger brother and reclaiming the dragons that the little twerp stole solely to the soldiers comprising his army is just about the only thing in the world that is less appealing and more mind-bogglingly stupid than living it rough and traveling through monster-infested forests and up stormy mountains.

Even if he  _has_ stepped in horse excrement more times than should physically fit inside of a horse. He has been riding on occasion, of course, but - well, he’s a prince, not some courier peasant! He doesn’t exactly spend day and night on horseback, and two days of riding was more than enough to leave him with thighs more sore than he thought was humanly possible.

In fact, he’s not entirely sure that he can stay on the horse he’s riding currently for much longer. The only reason he’s even on it in the first place is that his head of guard offered him the reasonable explanation that the current swampland they are traversing would leave their progress significantly more slowed than if he allowed himself at least the short horseback ride. However, the trip is dragging out for far longer than Harle implied it would. Emile is, quite frankly, starting to feel a little bit suspicious of Harle’s promise - Harle had, after all, been privy to his difficulties riding on horseback for extended lengths of time due to the proximity that their travel formation put them in.

Emile is just not so sure that this is the right time for a break quite yet. It was just two hours or so ago back, after all, that he had mounted his horse for the first time that day to give his sore feet a rest - er, that is, to heed Guard Captain Harle’s advice regarding expediency, and shouted his armored troops back into motion. They clearly hadn’t _needed_ the break that a page had trotted up to deliver the request for, after all - they are still marching steadily even now. Besides, Harle has captained over these troops for years, and at the time had shown no sign that Emile’s decision deserved to be put to question.

In fact, Harle is riding up right now, grinning with seemingly ever-present confidence.

Emile feels his lips curl into a moue of distaste at the irreverent grin on Harle’s face, but the expression dies in its infancy when Harle swings into a side lean for a friendly clap to Emile’s back. The motion jostles Emile just enough that he reflexively clutches at the pommel of his saddle - the only grip available to him as he has long since abandoned his reigns, since his pony has been following those ahead it anyhow. Unfortunately for Emile, his frantic scramble involves reflexively clenching his legs against his horse’s side - and he promptly chokes back a whimper as the ache of his thighs turns into a shooting agony.

“Ho!” declares Harle, seemingly completely ignorant of the distress his actions just caused - but for the faint curl of a smirk playing across his lips. “How is the ride, dear prince? You know, I do think you were right earlier about pressing on - a little fresh air is all _I_ needed. I’m feeling positively re-energized!”

Emile absently wonders if he can order the royal guard to throw their own captain into a cage with the monsters they are bringing to tame the Lightwyrm - but, no, that would functionally be giving Harle a free and easy carriage ride, at this point, and he’s just spiteful enough that he’d rather see Harle suffer right alongside him.

Except Harle doesn’t seem to be doing nearly as much suffering as Emile would like.

“ _Great_ ,” Emile grits out, “Except for this endless, stupid swamp and its disgusting smell. Didn’t _you_ say that we would be out by now? Are we lost, or are you just some kind of moron?”

Harle’s eyes widen, and he presses a hand to his chest apologetically. “Did I?” he asks, “My, my - you have my most _sincere_ apologies, Prince Emile! Don’t tell my men, but I’m afraid I’m actually not that great with directions.”

He sighs, dragging his gaze up from where it had sunk to the ground. “It’s a personal shame of mine, actually. _But!_ ” Harle snaps his reigns, straightening his posture to attention. “I know just how to make it up to you, princeling!”

Emile almost snaps at Harle over the nickname, but is shortly distracted by the way that his mare is perking up her ears, glancing at Harle’s stallion. He prances in front of her, finally breaking the monotony of swamp shrubs and puddles as Harle shows off his mastery of his horse.

There is a sinking feeling in Emile’s stomach.

“A friendly race!” Harle proclaims, and takes off into their parting troops. Before Emile can so much as swear, his stupid, imbecilic mare that apparently doesn’t know how to do anything except follow the closest tail in front of her nose, bolts in chase.

This time, Emile can’t hold back his yip as he desperately flings his arms around his horse’s neck. She pushes herself into a canter first, bouncy and energetic in exactly the right way to jam the pommel he’s draped himself over directly into his rib cage. He can’t even do anything short of hold on for his life, however - Emile is absolutely positive that if he lets go of her neck now, his legs won’t be able to keep him on his horse and he’s going to slide straight off and under the hooves of the last members of the royal guard the two of them are passing.

The jarring spring of his mare’s bounds manages to rattle both his teeth and his brains until he’s fairly certain that being trampled might be a blessing, and only then do they finally clear the rest of the troops - which prompts Harle to kick his mount into a proper gallop.

It’s a good thing that a gallop is smoother, Emile realizes, dazed, because the rush of the ground directly below his sight line is exactly terrifying enough that he just clutches onto his horse harder. Thirty more seconds of this, and he’s going to fall. Or start crying. Or both.

“Harle,” he croaks, and then clears his throat when the name comes out so quietly that even he can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.

“Harle!” he calls a second time, “Stop!”

Like magic, there is scarcely a second in delay after his shout before he can feel his horse start to slow down. It’s almost like Harle was waiting for him - but, Emile supposes, for all his incompetence at navigation and being attentive to Emile, Harle shines as a servant in the promptness of how he executes orders.

That’s all the good will that Emile can manage to summon, anyways, wincing through another short canter and then finally shoving himself upright as his mare slows to match the lively walk of Harle’s stallion.

“What is it, Prince Emile?” Harle asks, and nudges his horse into a turn that cuts off Emile’s mare. She balks slightly at the sudden stop, and ends up swerving to follow Harle. Emile growls his frustration, grabbing at her mane and yanking it to the right.

“Just _listen_ to me, you dumb animal!” he hisses at her, digging his fingers in.

He must be cursed with incompetent beasts, because like Mercury earlier, she doesn’t listen. In fact, she must be the most poorly-trained horse in the new Dyrenell Empire, because all she does in reaction is toss her head, pulling her main out of Emile’s fingers as he sways dangerously in the saddle and tries to clutch back onto her lest he plummet to his ignominious death.

“Oh, my,” comes Harle’s voice, sliding into the edges of Emile’s perception. “Oh, dear, dear, dear. Is the little princeling having some trouble, there?”

Emile can feel his hands tremble with the mixture of relief and rage that washes over him when his horse finally stops.

“I am not having _trouble_ ,” he snaps, adjusting himself in preparation to dismount. “I just think that you are doing an absolutely awful job of _guarding_ me for someone who is supposed to be _head guard_. Are you actually trying to kill me with your stupid racing games, you twit? Because I can have you thrown into the cages with the demonic beasts, if you wish!”

The more words come out of Emile’s mouth, the higher Harle’s eyebrows seem to rise on his face. By the time Emile finishes, Harle has actually leaned back in his seat and looks to be doing very poorly at suppressing an amused smile. The expression he arrives at makes him look more constipated than anything - wide eyes and an awkwardly quirked eyebrow over the most wavering solemn neutrality one can set one’s mouth to.

“Well?” Emile snarls, “Answer me! What the devil were you even trying to do?”

Harle gives up trying to school his own face, and barks a loud laugh before whirling into an elegant dismount that sends his coattails flapping.

“Nothing that would reflect poorly upon my intentions, I promise you,” he tells Emile, and sidles up to Emile’s mare. “But, oh, you do seem to be in a rather precarious position, there. Are you going to dismount, then?”

Emile bites back another wordless growl, entirely fed up with the situation, and shoves off from his stupid mare. It is only going to be a blessing to finally be off of such a wild, untrained beast - and it will put him close enough to Harle to give the man a proper piece of his mind regarding how he should be treating a damned _prince_.

Except his legs are still so sore that they’ve practically turned to sponge, and he’s been on the horse for so long - the moment Emile’s weight hits the ground, his knees buckle.

He might not have made the landing, honestly, if it weren’t for Harle. Among that slimy incompetent’s many off-putting habits is keeping much too close to Emile’s side, and just far back enough that he stays an aggravating flicker in the corner of Emile’s eye. This incident is likely the only time that this will ever prove to be to Emile’s benefit on any level… but prove himself helpful he does, as his proximity allows Harle to dart forward and grab Emile’s arm.

Harle yanks Emile up into a swing that, in Emile’s personal opinion, probably damn near dislocates his shoulder, and sends Emile crashing straight into Harle instead of the ground.

Emile knocks his forehead into Harle’s chin, sending both of them staggering and hissing, and ends up half-suspended over the mud with Harle’s elbows hooked under his armpits and his face pressed to Harle’s chest plate scarcely inches from that insufferable, lackwit smirk.

“What,” Emile says flatly, “Are you actually doing? I am your prince, not some peasant to be hauled about, you should be - w-wait, wait, don’t let go!”

Harle pauses his retreat, and from this range Emile can hear him snicker quietly as he does it. “Oh? I merely thought to treat you as the prince you are!” Harle says, pointedly lowering Emile another inch closer to the mud.

Emile struggles to lever a leg under himself, but can’t push himself up properly when his legs have turned to jelly, and his boots slip through the mud.

“Then you should be helping me up properly,” he bites out, “Not like I’m some sack of potatoes - ah!”

Harle jerks him up again, and Emile is upright on his feet for one blessed second before his momentum overshoots him and he starts tipping backward, clawing for Harle’s shoulder. Harle seems to see this coming, and sweeps an arm under Emile’s back, leaning forward on a bent knee until he has Emile arched into an awkward dip.

“Is his better?” Harle murmurs, and Emile scrabbles his feet frantically but uselessly in the mud.

“What?!” Emile gasps, “Are you actually insane? I -”

“- Ah, ah, ah!” Harle interrupts, and presses a hand over Emile’s mouth. His palm is warm against Emile’s wind-chilled lips, but the cold metal of his bracer cuts into Emile’s cheek on one side. “I think that’s just about enough out of you, princeling. It seems I have you at a bit of a disadvantage, and I want to take this opportunity to impart a bit of a lesson - for the good of the Empire, of course!”

“You see,” Harle goes on, irreverent of Emile’s muffled noise of indignity, “I was hoping that a few hours on horseback would teach you the wisdom of recuperation - or at least offer my poor troops some entertainment in their suffering, to see you waddling around afterwards, wincing like a duck-toed child fresh off of their first horse-riding lesson - but you’ve proven yourself as stubborn as you are stupid.”

Emile is quiet, breathing hard in rage against Harle’s hand as he realizes Harle isn’t going to let him speak. Harle notices, smiling, and take his hand off -

And promptly presses his thumb to Emile’s lip when Emile opens his mouth to talk.

“Tsk, no. I’m not done yet,” he says, and tips Emile back another smidgen. Emile’s boots slide another precarious inch in the slippery mud, and he restrains himself to a gasp as he tightens his grip on Harle’s shoulder. The muscles in his thighs burn from the effort of keeping himself from falling, and his back aches as it arches into a position it was never meant to bend to.

“Done?” Harle asks, and without pausing to wait for a reply, “Mm, good! Now, where was I…?”

He slides his hand off of Emile’s mouth and underneath his jaw, applying just enough pressure for Emile to start feeling an ache. Emile’s adam’s apple bobs against his palm as he swallows, jerking his head away.

“You’re supposed to _protect_ me,” he manages to croak, before Harle tightens his grip. Emile is already nearly reduced to gasping to breathe, so the slight additional pressure Harle adds to tip his head back up to meet his eyes can practically be called loving in comparison.

“Oh, but I _am_ ,” Harle hums as Emile stares up at him in fearful silence. “I want you to be successful, my prince. And success requires hard lessons, sometimes. I just need you to understand that you are in a position of power - people follow your orders, you see, so you have to go on and give them the right orders.”

“- And unless you’d like me to strap you back on that horse until you are so _very_ acquainted with the true meaning of saddle-sore,” Harle goes on, lips pulling back into a sneer, “That means that we are giving the guard a very long, very restful break once we reach Kleifheim. Does that sound good to you, your royal highness Prince Emile?”

Emile tries to agree and manages to produce a weak wheeze. When his attempt at nodding runs into the same difficulty of Harle’s hand across his throat, Harle laughs loudly into his face.

“Right, right,” he says, letting go of Emile to wipe an amused tear from his eye, “Well, if that’s that -”

He gently pulls Emile back up, sliding his hand from Emile’s back down to his hand. As Emile stands there, wavering anxiously on his unsteady legs and unsure if he wants to grab back onto Harle’s shoulder or slug him, Harle sweeps into a bow and presses a kiss to the back of Emile’s hand.

“Thank you for your wisdom and understanding,” Harle murmurs against Emile’s knuckles, and the next appellation that leaves his mouth is as incorrect as it is effective at taking Emile’s breath away. “Your majesty. Now, let’s mount back up and tell the troops how you so skillfully beat me at my own race - after all, we still have a ways to go before we reach the mountains and Kleifheim.”

Emile doesn’t have enough spirit or wits about him to provide much more than a pathetic sound of protest as Harle turns him by his shoulders and marches him back towards his mare. He has no idea what just happened, but the thought of getting on a horse right now is enough to take all of the wind out of his sails -

But not quite enough to distract him from the burn of Harle’s palm against his leg when his head guard has to help him clamber up. The rest of the trip, Harle rides even more closely to Emile than usual - close enough that Emile can hear his low chuckle every time Emile adjusts painfully in his saddle.

**Author's Note:**

> I like terrible people being terrible to each other. Why have romance when you can have Harle gaslighting Emile?


End file.
